The old man couldn't help but glance through the windows over and over again as he waited for them to come by. Chills went up and down his spine as he noticed the black squad car rolling down the dusty road to his country farmhouse. His heart thumped and thumped against his chest as the figure exited the car and closed in on the door to the house itself.

Fuck me.

He knew something like this was going to happen eventually. He just knew it! The deepest and darkest parts of his mind knew that something like this was only going to end in disaster, for him and everyone else involved.

Three knocks on the door.

He took a deep breath, and opened the door, only to be greeted by a tall man, wearing a gray trench coat. In his hand was a silver-lined suitcase, with a blue pentagram on the side. The friendliness of his smile was only offset by its routine, impersonal frigidity.

"Hello, I am Agent Garrison, officer of the South-Eastern division of the Global Occult Coalition. Mind if I step inside?"

"N-No, not at all," he stammered out, cracking the door open to reveal the hovel of a home he had.

"Mind if I ask your name?" the man inquired, stepping inside the home.

"Well, Mr. Henderson, this is quite the lovely, uh," he paused, looking over the messy one bedroom house. Cups were still laid out on the coffee table, plates piled up on the kitchen counter, the TV had a large crack covering most of the screen1, and clothes were strewn across the entire building. It looked like it was one knock away from collapsing in on itself.

"— house. Yes. Very lovely indeed."

"Well, I try."

"Mind if I sit down here?", Agent Garrison said, pointing towards the small wooden table near the middle of the room, a variety of assorted pieces of trash and filth covering the surface.

"Of course not," Henderson replied, lying through his teeth as he threw the trash off the table in one swift motion, crashing to the floor with a loud clatter. They took their seats, each seated directly from the other.2 Henderson tried his best to avert his gaze directly at the floorboards, and, more specifically, from the creature living beneath said floorboard.

"So, Mr. Henderson, how long have you lived in this, um, place?"

"Five years, or so."

"And how many dependents do you have living underneath your care?"

"None. Unless you count the rats," he chuckled out.

"Any family, biological or otherwise?"

Henderson paused, his eyes drifting away from the Agent and towards the surface of the table.

"None. They, um, all died when the Foundation bombed Site-43. My family was near it when they did that, when the Foundies did the… well, you know."

"My apologies. We all have had family members die at the hands of the Foun—"

"I don't want to hear it," Henderson interjected, his tone shifting.

An ugly pause.

"Why are you here?"

Agent Garrison cleared his throat before answering the question.

"Neighbors and certain members of the South-eastern division have determined an unusual amount of Humes within the area around your 19 acres of land. Usually, these would be classified as minor nexuses or possible Ways within your area, but," he stopped talking, pulling out a small notepad covered in black ink, "the amount in your area suggests a possible Green living in your property."

"Now," he said, sitting up and walking near the middle of the room, "would you mind letting me investigate your property for the Green? The Coalition will reimburse you for any and all damages we may inflict in the name of the greater go—"

Henderson leaped onto the Agent, punching and beating against his head and desperately grasping for some sort of weapon he had on him.

"Dammit — fuck — what the hell are you —"

He was cut off from each continuous punch coming from Henderson before the Agent was able to wrestle him off of him, allowing for enough time to brandish his pistol from its holster hidden inside of his trenchcoat.

With the Agent on top, Henderson felt the cold metal of the gun against his Adam's apple. It was the coldest piece of metal he felt in a long time.

"Now," the Agent said, wheezing as he turned the pistol off 'safe', "Where's the Gre—"

Henderson attempted to wrestle the gun away, but only felt the surprise presence of a bullet into his throat and into his frontal lobe. The brain splattered against the wall and floor and every in between, making the house a painting of red.

"God fucking damn—"

Agent Garrison was cut off by the sound of rustling outside the home, and the sound of a child's soft footsteps as it left the cellar of the farm house and into the large and spacious woods behind it.

"Reports from neighbors suggest the Green is inside the woods somewhere. What do you suggest as our course of action, sir?"

"Kill it," the Commander replied, a venomous tone in his voice.

"Understood."

The man stopped in front of the dead body, a bullet wound inside of its head. The blood was oozing out of the frontal lobe and shoulder of the creature in front of him. He tried to stifle the small smile creeping onto his face. He faced the short woman next to it, blood covering her gray trenchcoat.

"Agent Bailey, did an analysis of the body suggest anomalous properties, reality bending or otherwise?"

"No sir."

"Any evidence of a connection to either the Foundation or the Hand?"

"No, sir. He seemed to be a civilian."

Civilian traitors. The worst types.

"I see. What of his relation to the escape Green?"

"They weren't biologically related, it seems. Gave the bo—"

"Please, Agent Bailey, don't treat it as if it was human. It's unprofessional."

"….Alright, sir, the Green was given shelter."

"Better. What of its age?"

"Analysis of the basement suggests single digits, sir."

"Thank you. As you were."

The man readjusted his rimless glasses and looked out the window, towards the fields and towards the woods that surrounded the small wooden house.

The boy ran through the shrub and bushes, his heart beat racing as he heard the men closing in on him. The bright flashes of light were getting closer and closer to him.

"This way!"

"Get your guns ready. Intel suggests Response Level 4."

The boy tried to not vomit as he crouched near a tree. His entire body felt weak, he shivered despite it being relatively warm.

This is it, isn't it? he thought as he closed his eyes and rested. This is how I'm gonna die? In the middle of some dark woods where nobody can hear me scream. Is James still alive?

He tried to throw away that thought, but it kept eating away at him. He could feel his throat fill up with bile and vomit at even the thought of what they were doing to James. He heard about Coalition torture tactics. His imagination flashed to car batteries, pliers, and needles. He gagged at the thought.

His heart only sank further as he heard a shrill voice and saw the glaring light coming from behind the tree.

"Hey, the trail leads this way!"

Three figures stood standing on the treeline above the forest. They watched the small child crouched behind the large oak tree, his head buried inside of his shirt. The five-man group were following the trail of footsteps towards the oak tree. The hooded figure's bare feet dangled below, swaying back and forth.

"Can I go in boss? It's been so long since I killed one of these Gock bastards."

"Not yet."

The hooded figure chewed on his finger, looking through the bushes and tree line towards the group of five Gock soldiers. All heavily armed and covered in the latest Anchor armor.3 He bit down harder on his ring finger, drawing blood.

"You know not to do that," the taller man said, his clown mask hanging around his neck.

"Sorry, a habit of mine."

"Hey, the trail leads this way!"

The boss looked back at the hooded figure, and nodded.

The man approached the trail, aiming down his sight for a young humanoid. He had expected a chase, but nothing to this extent. If only Agent Garrison had been a better sho—

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey Gocky."

He turned his head to see a dark haired boy, hanging upside down and blood dripping from his lip. His eyes stared directly into the man's own. His face twisted into a frown.4

"Don't worry," he said, licking his lips, "it's mine."

Before the man could respond, the creature drew its hands forward towards the man's throat. His entire hand enveloped the man's throat.

Crunch.

"Oh, so that's what that sounds like."

He jumped down, looking at the man's face. His eyeballs were dangling out of his skull. He looked at his own hand. Several white shards covering the palm, along with a variety of different fluids. He tried wiping it off on his hood, before feeling several eye-balls staring at him from behind.

"Freeze!" yelled a deep voice, "Lay on the ground, or we will shoot."

The hooded man turned around, facing towards the four other members of the group, their guns and flashlights turned on him. He decided to follow the most logical course of action in such a situation.

"Hey, you wanna hear about the cannibal with a girlfriend?"

"Lay on the ground, or we will sho—"

"Yeah," he continued, ignoring the cold voice as he tried to stifle his own laughter, "I heard he ate her out!"

Click

"Hey," he said, putting his hands behind his head and backing away from the group as they readied their guns, "guess you can't win them all—"

He jumped back onto the stump of a tree, and propelled forward into the group, crashing into them.

"—right?"

He grabbed hold of the two men of the group, digging his long yellow nails into their necks. He dug around in them before feeling a bullet enter into his skull. He twisted his head around, feeling his neck snap out of place, and look down to face the barrel of a shotgun, directly aimed at his face. He staggered back as the shotgun blast tore away at his face, causing pieces of brain and bone to fly through the air and onto the ground. It felt weird to him, especially considering he could see parts of his exposed brain and pieces of his glass-like skull.

He orientated himself off the ground, staring at the two. He tried staring at her,5 a large grin plastered across his face. She flinched for a moment, but quickly raised her gun and aimed her sights onto the robed figure before her.

He jumped into the air, dodging the gunfire and entering the treeline.

The two women pressed their backs to each other, aiming their guns in various directions as they scanned the dark treeline above them. A rustle provoked the smaller among them to fire to her right, causing a bloodied raccoon to fall where an animal-like creature should have been. The taller and slightly more experienced one began speaking into the small microphone embed into her armor.

"Command! We need back up, we've sighted a hostile entity during our search for the Green, we need—"

Before she could finish her sentence, the dark-hooded figure jumped from the treeline and onto the two, wrapping his legs around their necks. He tightened his muscles, an audible pop sound emanating from their necks. Their eyeballs dangled from their sockets as the figure removed his legs from around their necks.

"Hey, kid," the man asked, squatting before the child. He tugged slightly against his black trenchcoat. The kid was quietly weeping into his shirt. It was the only sound that could be heard for miles. Behind him, his companion held a pistol.

"You wanna come with us? We'll protect you from them."

No response.

"Look, we're sorry about what happened, but you can't let that stop you."

No response.

"The old man, he would have wanted you to keep going. He died so you could live. Don't stay here and die for nothing."

No response.

"Trust me, The Circus will be a great place."

No response.

"It might not be the greatest place on earth, but I think it—"

The kid collapsed onto his side, weeping turned to light murmuring, and then snoring. The man approached the squatting one, a clown mask strapped to his face.

The man in the gray trench coat looked over the carnage before him.Five soldiers, two women and three men, went missing in those woods. Various organs, limbs, and assorted pieces of flesh were strewn across the small patch of grass in front of him. At first glance, it looked like they were ripped apart by an animal, but on closer inspection, this was not the case. They were arranged in an unnatural way, as if they were planted there on purpose.

He took another drag from his half finished cigarette. He was going to get every last inch of tobacco out of it even if it was the last thing he ever did. He had already gone through his monthly allowance in about a week,6 and he was getting that itch. He wondered if the bodies had any on them.

He took three more steps towards the patch, noticing the small outline of a message in the body parts and organs in front of him. He recognized that phrase and style of writing7 before.